He also said that her costume choice was a disruptive presence in the clubhouse. Since Nadel's July 30th column, the sports sections of several newspapers and the blogosphere have been alight with commentary. Andrews herself called the hubbub over her low-cut dress "sad" and told the Minneapolis Star-Tribune that “when there’s a big game between the Cubs and Brewers going on, it’s sad that [my body] is what their focus is on." Fellow female sports journalist Trenni Kusnierek is firmly in the anti-Andrews camp, and she told a Milwaukee sports blog earlier this week, "Erin is a beautiful girl with a body I'd kill for. I know she's hotter than me. But, she'd still be better looking in a professional outfit, not just in glorified lingerie. As a female in the same business, I wish she'd realize how damaging it is to an entire gender when she carries herself in that manner. It sets us all back to a time where female sports reporters were all seen as husband hunters who were only in the business to catch a cheap glance."

I'll admit it, I'm not a frequent baseball watcher, and so I don't know if Andrews' outfit is as wildly inappropriate as Kusnierek and Nadal purport. However, I think Kusnierek is way off the mark when she says that Andrews short skirt is "damaging to the entire gender," because those sorts of histrionics are just as damaging. Deadspin'sA.J. Daulerio struck a middle ground when he wrote, "Honestly, sports blogs (Deadspin included, obviously) are shameless in the promotion and objectification of Erin Andrews, but the reality is she wouldn't have ascended to that level of deification had she not shown some level of competency to go along with her other physical attributes." But several questions still remain: was Andrews initial wardrobe choice inappropriate? Should her wardrobe choices be a non-issue in the first place? Is this entire "scandal" just further evidence that sexism in the sports world is so deeply entrenched that it's the accepted mode of behavior? Sports nuts, enlighten us!

Mike Nadel: Blonde Bombshell Can't Distract Red-Hot Cubs [Norwich Bulletin]
Erin Andrews: “My Overall Reaction Is That It’s Really Sad.” [Star-Tribune]
A Female Journalist's Take On The Erin Andrews Story [OnMilwaukee.com]

Related: The Erin Andrews Floozy-Dress Mess Gets Dissected From All Angles
The Erin Andrews Backlash Has Officially Begun

[New York, June 22. Image via Splash.]

• We were "purchased" by Conde Nast...not. But you guys got your panties in some serious bunches about it.
  
• Maybe you were just cranky because you live in New York and you're not getting any.
  
• Perhaps you just discovered your second grader is a sexual harasser.
  
• Anna and Tracie crashed the New York Weddings Showcase and all they got was some moisturizer, lobster cups, mini-hamburgers and period-blood.

• We wondered if hot chicks make dudes financially irresponsible.
• We worshipped at the altar of baseball.
• We peed on the altar of Rush Limbaugh.
• But New Kids on the Block reunited! So crack open a cold one and pour some out for Donnie, Joey, Jordan, Danny and Jonathan. It's Friday!

"I believe in the Church of Baseball. I've tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I've worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. I know things. For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance. But it just didn't work out between us. The Lord laid too much guilt on me. I prefer metaphysics to theology. You see, there's no guilt in baseball, and it's never boring... which makes it like sex...I've tried 'em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball."

1. It's About Family I know of no other professional sport that brings people together quite like baseball. At the stadium, strangers become friends, the seats are filled with families, and, unlike, say, a football, basketball or hockey game, conversation is not only possible but encouraged. The same is true for the men on the field; it is rare to hear trash-talking, grunting, or yelling; in baseball we meet men who are asked to keep their mouths shut in the service of the greater good — those who don't comply are often thrown out of the game — but smiles and playful slaps abound. The game's demands of loyalty and teamwork creates (or, perhaps, attracts) men who appreciate the beauty of routine and the rewards of commitment, qualities many a woman can appreciate. (Certainly, the rise of free agency has changed the nature of loyalty in the game, but let's forget the Johnny Damons for a second and concentrate on the Cal Ripken Jrs. instead.) As a onetime single girl with many like-minded friends, I can confidently say that baseball players have kept us warm on many a lonely, unaccompanied spring and summer evening.

2. There's Method Behind The "Monotony" Many women tell me they don't understand the appeal of baseball because it's "slow", or "boring", that "nothing happens", that it "takes too long". They "get" how the game is played — understand that three strikes equal an out, that the way to home is via the basepaths — but they don't appreciate that that the devil is the details, that entire athletic operas are being performed through glances exchanged and glances avoided, seemingly neurotic adjustments in gear, in balls dropped and misthrown. What a woman will see upon careful examination of the game is that what at first seemed arbitrary is in fact, well-orchestrated: a foul ball is not an insignificant annoyance, but an expression of the battle raging between a pitcher and his prey; the left-fielder who once looked to be pacing in boredom in the outfield is not only keeping his blood pumping in the chilly October air but positioning himself to discourage the base-runner on third who is angling for home. For longtime baseball fans, this may sound naive — of course the little dramas are what the game is about — but for someone coming to the game as a virgin, such secondary plots are far from obvious. "Getting" the game of baseball requires the same sort of diligence and patience demanded of the players themselves, and, if a girl's lucky, a particularly poetic baseball announcer or fellow fan will help her to "get" it. (Even though I consider myself a longtime fan, I still prefer watch games on television, or at least take my radio and headphones along with me to the ballpark so that I can hear the announcers describe the action.) The game of baseball is not unlike a lifelong, well-worn, comfortable love affair: After a time, you know what to expect, but you can never predict what will happen. You also learn how to forgive. (In case anyone's wondering, I'm a Mets woman.)

3. It's Full Of Sex Appeal I know I'll get excoriated for this — particularly my use of the image of a Derek Jeter fan at left — but the fact of the matter is, for many women, the sex appeal of baseball players is what brings them to the majors. (Bull Durham's Annie Savoy may have said that what's great about baseball is that "If you know where home plate is, then you know where everything else in the universe is", but she was certainly no stranger to the more carnal qualities of the game.) There are few other sports — professionally played and regularly broadcast over the televisions in America, that is — in which the male physique is so plainly on display. The lack of padding and face-obscuring helmets means that female fans get a clear view of players' faces, forearms, and yes, form-fitting pants. But the erotic appeal of baseball goes far beyond ripe rear ends, phallus-shaped sports equipment and grammar-school metaphors in which basepaths double as sexual signposts: Through close attention to the game, women begin to appreciate a masculinity defined not by muscles or money but by hard work and humility. Baseball players are men, after all, who sublimate the more primitive characteristics encouraged in other sports — aggression, rage, dominance — in favor of something approaching grace, whether that be the lift of a soaring, well-hit, left-field single or the determination of a batter who fouls off one nasty slider after another. Certainly, there will always be guys — both in the game and at the corner bar — who behave badly, disappoint, and, for lack of a better phrase, drop the ball. But I do believe that in a cultural and political climate currently awash in exhibitionism, arrogance and chest-thumping, there's nothing sexier than a guy who keeps his head down, shuts up, and plays well with others.

[Images via Getty]

Both Saturday and Sunday morning, the second my boyfriend's eyes fluttered open, he immediately rolled over to pick up his phone from the nightstand. No half-asleep cuddles, no good-morning kisses—just straight to the iPhone. I never even had a chance to conduct my little experiment! Even for my single-mindedly retarded darling, this sort of "wake up and smell the iPhone" behavior was a little extreme. Then I realized what was going on: Saturday and Sunday were games 6 and 7 of the ALCS, and his much-beloved Red Sox were playing for a shot at the World Series. He had woken up and reached immediately for the phone so that he could log on to ESPN.com or some Sox message board, or maybe answer one of the dozen text messages that were pouring in from his equally obsessed buddies.

Not that I wasn't warned it would be like this. I've always known he was a die-hard Sox fan, and in the years before we started dating and were simply friends, I managed to keep an amused distance from him during games, playoffs, or, God forbid, the 2004 World Series. Back then, it was just cute: "Oh, look at him—he's such a little nut!" But then I was promoted to girlfriend status, and suddenly things were looking less cute. The baseball obsession was very real, like a confirmed case of rabies. The regular season wasn't so bad, but as the summer drew to a close, I found him raptly staring at games and leaping from the dinner table, fists a-pumpin', if the Sox were nailing plays. It was a bit annoying, but whatever: if he wanted to jump around like a Pavlovian monkey trained to go happily batshit at the sight of Manny Ramirez, then so be it.


But darkness loomed, As the season was winding down and things were looking better and better for the Sox's playoff hopes, things got a little more intense. "Listen," he gently said to me one night at a bar, "The postseason is starting, and things are going to get a little crazy. I want you to be prepared, because this will be my life." Then, less gently: "I might be manic. I might be incredibly depressed. I might want to stay out all night or I might want hide in my apartment and be alone." Okay? Then, forcefully: "I might laugh like a freak or cry like a baby or scream uncontrollably at the top of my lungs. I just want to warn you. I'm not going to act like myself." Huh. I think abusive husbands give a similar speech before they push their wives down the stairs.

The warnings continued and, while they freaked me out a bit, I worked hard to see things in a positive light. He's dedicated to a single team, his love for the Sox is undying—that must mean he's really good at commitment! And he's being open and honest about his obsession—so he's always going to be open and honest with me! Yes! These are all good things for Us! In turn, I did my part: I learned about the players, watched as many games as I could (always at the bar—watching at home didn't reflect enough dedication for him, I guess), and actually started to develop a genuine interest in the game. If I can't beat the Red Sox nation, I might as well half-join 'em.

Interest, however, is not psychosis, so I could only understand so much of the mind-boggling inanity that followed. Tickets to see Springsteen at Madison Square Garden were abandoned because the show was on a game night. A friend invited us over for a small dinner party, where the game would definitely be on, and the offer was refused ("I will be in no state to be at a dinner party if there's a game that night!"). I rolled solo to a couple-filled engagement party, where I explained to no less than six other curious guests that my boyfriend couldn't make it because of the Sox. I signed up for this, in a sense, and so I've done my best to be a good sport—but conversations have been sidelined, schedules have been cleared, and life has come to an utter standstill.

The other night was Game 1 of the World Series. The beginning of the end, I know, and I just have to hang in there. But even with the Sox leading early in the game, my incredibly worried boyfriend paced nervously in front of the bar's TVs, hands often on his head, eyes burning with an intensity I can only wish I might someday see in the bedroom. It occurred to me: I don't even know this person anymore. He didn't even seem to be having fun until the Sox were safely up 13-1 in the neverending 5th inning, at which point the game got wildly boring and my interest began waning. He, of course, had to stay at the bar to watch and gloat at every minute of the remainder of the game. Later, as we walked home, I not-so-subtly suggested that we have sex when we get home. "Sorry," he said. "Gotta watch the highlights. You can have me all you want in the morning, but tonight's ESPN." Um, REALLY? I'm offering myself to you and you'd rather watch highlights from a game of which you JUST saw every single minute? IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?

While I'm ranting and whining and using this otherwise lovely website as a receptacle for whatever cathartic crapping I'm doing right now, I do, at the end of the day, respect that this is my boyfriend's "thing," that it's not going to change, and that it's part of who he is. And that's that. But I have to wonder, would anything in this world come before a Sox playoff game? If I were being savagely beaten out front of the bar while the bases were loaded, would I be left for dead? If this beating landed me in the emergency room, he might call the hospital to check on me during a commercial break—but even then, I'm not so sure. It'd probably depend on who was up at bat.

Earlier: The iPhone Is Cool And All But Can You Stick Your Dick In It?

As any moderate sports-fan knows, Pavano, 31, is pretty much the sexiest baseball player in the Major Leagues, rivaled only in the long-lashed, thick-haired and chiseled body dept. by another Italian-American hurler, the SF Giant Barry Zito. (Fun fact: Alyssa Milano has dated both Pavano and Zito). The word on the street (the "street" being Steppin' Out magazine, via The NY Post) is that Allemand, 23, put the injury-plagued Pavano on ice after the 6-foot, 5-inch pitcher cheated on her. "I was the one that trained him and got him there all year," she is quoted as saying. "I stood by him and didn't work so I could help him out, and he cheats on me. Nice, right?"

Is this woman for real? Doesn't she know that the whole point of dating a baseball player is sublimating your ambitions and putting up with slutty baseball groupies so you can get into games for free and have sex with a smokin' hot guy? Self-respect, shmelf-respect!

Pavano Gal Pal Drops Bomber [NYPost]

Ria Cortesio, the only female umpire in professional baseball (5 days to opening day, ladies!) is set to work a Major League game for the first time in 20 years. Fun fact: Cortesio "uses a low grunt to call strikes". Fun fact number two: She gets to look at players' cute butts and backs all day. [Feministing]

The Kevin Federline metamorphosis soldiers on. First he's suddenly a caring father and husband. Next up: Visionary new-media entrepreneur! [MediaPost]

A golden retriever saves a woman from choking to death by jumping up and down on her chest. [USA Today]

Yes, Perez, it's wrong. [PerezHilton]